


Isolation Got You Down?

by madscientist1313



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Domestic Avengers, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Humor, Isolation, Quarantine, social distancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:07:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23440663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madscientist1313/pseuds/madscientist1313
Summary: Stay-at-home orders went into effect ten days ago and you're -maybe, possibly- starting to lose it a little. Luckily, Bucky's here to pull you out of your isolation-induced funk.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Reader, James "Bucky" Barnes/Original Female Character(s), James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 69





	Isolation Got You Down?

**Author's Note:**

> Day 7 of my isolation: I have forgotten what my face looks like with makeup. Day 8: I wore a superhero T-shirt purchased from the Target boys' department on three different video conference calls. Day 9: The dog has learned how to communicate telepathically, and he has asked me to give him some space. Day 10: I finally managed to channel my listless ennui into, well, this... I do hope you enjoy.

Day ten of quarantine, and you’ve lost all sense of propriety.

It’s as though you’re writing your own version of _Lord of the Flies_ – albeit a sad, boring, lonely version – wherein the dissolution of societal norms leads to a full-grown woman lying prone on her bed wearing nothing but a bright pink towel, a scraped-clean 64-ounce jar of peanut butter by her side and a phone down to it’s last 11-percent of life clutched desperately in her hand.

There are no rules in isolation, no order nor structure. No duty. No purpose. No need for decorum or even, well, moving.

How it is that Bucky cannot see this, is beyond you. How he’s still capable of – and _willing_ _to_ – dress and eat and function as though the entire world hasn’t just been put on hold, is an absolute mystery. How he ever managed to convince you to shower and _finally_ wash your hair this morning, is a question that’s still – hours later – burning through your limp mind. And how on Earth he thinks it’s possible that you’re going to get up and leave this room at any point today, is an unfathomable, unanswerable, downright baffling enigma.

And yet here he is, looming over your motionless body, an incredulous, almost _amused_ look on his face as you tell him – _again_ – “No.”

He quirks his head and narrows his eyes, and tries to hold back a laugh. “C’mon, doll,” he urges, bumping his knee harshly against the edge of the bed to jostle you. “Just a walk. Let’s just go outside and get some fresh air. I think you could use it.”

Your brow furrows, scowl tightening your cheeks and pursing your lips. “James,” you warn low and slow. “I told you, _no_.”

He lets out a long, deflating sigh and flops down onto the bed beside you, grimacing when he rolls over onto – is that a spoon? He grabs the utensil and tosses it into your lap with an irritated huff. “How long have you been wearing that towel?” he asks pointedly, eyes tracing up and down your otherwise naked body as you recline into the mound of pillows piled at your back.

You shrug, smug look rolling over your features. “This is what I wear now.”

“A damp towel? You’ve been wearing this since you showered this morning?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

You were here when he left earlier, curled atop the comforter, mumbling a vague _thank you_ as he dropped off a mug of hot coffee before heading out for a run. You were here when he got back home – sitting at least – in the same spot on the bed, yelling at him to go shower and change, squealing in horror as he tried to lean down and kiss you on his way into the bathroom. You were here when he got out of the shower, rolling your eyes at his clean and neat and _dressed_ form as he pecked you on the cheek before taking off to forage for food in the common area.

You’ve been here all along. Because this is where you live now. On this bed. In this room. Away from _everyone_ and _everything._

You don’t bother to respond to his inane inquiry, opting instead to shoulder a dismissive shrug and turn back to the Buzzfeed quiz open on your slowly dying phone.

He slides closer, leans his forehead onto your bare shoulder for a moment and presses a soft kiss to your bicep. Then he grabs the phone from your hands with the speed and stealth of a damn ninja. “Hey!” you bark out, slapping at his arm as he holds the phone up high, trying to read the screen and keep it from your reach simultaneously. “Gimme!”

His eyes narrow as he recites, “ _Choose some cupcakes, and we’ll tell you when you’ll get married_ ,” before letting out a long groan and turning to chuck the phone up onto the chest of drawers several feet away.

You blink and sputter, rather impressed with his gentle toss that lands your phone safely so far away. But also pissed off that you might actually have to roll out of bed to retrieve it later. The frown on your face deepens as you utter, “It’s not like I can rely on _you_ to tell me when that’ll happen.”

A deep chuckle pulls from his chest, vibrating into you as he lays back down and curls into your side. “Baby, we can get married any time you want.” He drapes his metal arm over your middle, sneaking his cold, hard fingers beneath the towel and grasping lightly at your hip. A sudden shiver runs through you at the cool touch and you buck slightly, the action pulling another soft laugh from the man by your side. “But to do that, you’ll need to get out of bed. And put on some clothes.”

You roll lazily over onto your side to face him, placing the two of you nose to nose. His fingers – slowly warming from the contact of your skin – fall from your hip to your low back. “What’s the point?” you mutter breathily into the small space between. You connect with his gray-blue eyes, easily recognizing the lightness that permeates them only when he’s near you. “Can’t leave. Can’t go anywhere. Not supposed to be around people.” You shrug and sigh – both such terribly melancholy gestures that it causes those brilliant blue eyes to darken.

His metal thumb begins to trace soft, slow circles on the naked flesh of your hip. “I’m worried about you,” he states, leaning the tiniest bit closer and swiping the tip of his nose against yours. That dreaded worry line between his eyes deepens as he pulls away, his hand shifting from beneath your towel and coming up to rest on the side of your face. “I know we’re under a quarantine, but that doesn’t mean you need to completely shut yourself off from the world.”

The corners of your lips continue to tug downward. “I was staying connected through my phone. Which you stole. Now I’m officially, completely isolated.”

He pulls back a bit to give you a dubious stare. “I really think you need some fresh air,” he tries again, the suggestion coming off even more pretentious than before.

You direct your eyes back up at the whitewashed ceiling, chin lifting defiantly as you state, “I like the air in here.”

“The air in here smells like mildew,” he says, fingering the edge of your – _mostly_ – dry towel. He sniffs loudly, wrinkling his nose in something akin to disgust. “And… peanut butter. Have you eaten anything other than peanut butter for the past week?”

“You brought me pizza last night,” you mutter plainly. “And Sam gave me cookies.”

He flops back onto the mattress – no pillows to cushion his fall as you’ve piled them all up behind you – and his lids clamp tightly shut as he moans, “Those damn cookies. I don’t know why Wilson keeps baking shit.”

You merely shrug. “We all deal with anxiety in our own ways.”

Those utterly sincere words – the first that seem to carry not a hint of sarcasm or goading – cause Bucky’s brow to furrow once again, the crease between his eyes caving in as he shifts to gaze at the side of your face. “You really think this is the best way for you to deal with it?”

Another shrug. Another frown. Another noncommittal groan.

“You’re anxious?” he asks, knowing the answer, of course, but waiting for you to respond all the same. When you don’t, he reaches out and gently pinches the tip of your chin between his metal thumb and forefinger, pivoting your face towards him. “You’re scared?”

Your gaze hardens, expression shifting from ennui to irritation. “I’m not _scared_ ,” you tell him, voice taking on an argumentative edge. “I don’t get _scared_.”

He laughs, soft and genuine, and flattens his palm against your cheek. “I know, baby. You’re one tough bitch.”

You roll your eyes exasperatedly. “You can’t call me that.”

“You’re _my_ tough bitch,” he drawls out, voice smooth as silk, lips quirking into a sly smile.

You pull away from him, rolling back onto your back so you can stare aimlessly at the ceiling. “I’m not scared,” you repeat softly, words obviously meant more for you than for him.

“I know.”

“Two weeks ago, I ran into a burning building without a second thought,” you mutter, voice oddly wistful as you recall those death-defying actions you undertook on the last pre-pandemic mission.

“Yeah,” Bucky grumbles, shifting uncomfortably beside you. “Not your finest moment. I’m not sure that was fearlessness so much as stupidity.”

“We needed that flash drive,” you state plainly. “And the point is, I wasn’t scared to do it.”

“You should’ve been,” he counters bitingly, clearly still a bit bitter about you putting the fear of God in him for little more than a handful of old SHIELD personnel files. He hauls himself up and throws his left knee over your hip, straddling your lap as you continue to lay there, motionless. His eyes bore into you as he looms, face slowly moving into your line of sight even as you try to continue staring past him. “So you weren’t scared to do that, but I ask you to take a walk with me and you act like I’m trying to kill you?”

“That was different.” He gives you a disbelieving look, single brow cocked high. “It was… is. This is… it’s just… it’s different.”

“It’s different because you didn’t think about running into that building. You just reacted.” He lets out a harsh scoff. “Wish you woulda thought about it a little more. But still…” His flesh thumb rises to trace a slow arc along your jawline, a gentle, soothing stroke. “But _this_ … You’re just lying here all day, staring at the ceiling _thinking_ about this… stuff.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do?” you bleat out, wide eyes finally seizing onto his. “Put it out of my mind? It’s everywhere!” You shift beneath him, attempting to somehow curl up and away, and you let out an irritated growl when his knees squeeze your hips to hold you in place. You glower at him, cheeks and ears beginning to burn in an angry blush. “Turn on the TV, hit up social medial, scan the news… hell, I check my email and I have messages from every place I’ve ever shopped telling me what they’re doing about the… _pandemic_. And don’t tell me to just… avoid it… or… ignore it. Because I _can’t_. Because I have literally nothing else to do but read about it and hear about it and watch it. Because I can’t _work_. Or _leave_. Or have fun. Or do _anything_. Because we’re trapped here like rats in a collapsed _sewer_.”

“Very dramatic,” he intones, expression blank and seemingly unimpressed.

You release a long, pained sigh and somehow manage to sink deeper into the pillows at your back. “I’m a TB patient, sent off to a sanitarium to slowly wither and die amongst the other like-conditioned people.” He sits back on his heels and rolls his eyes so dramatically that he almost falls backward. “Here,” you demand suddenly, reaching up and grabbing at his arms. You tug him off to the side with a grunt, his body like a lead weight, even as he willingly follows your lead. “Lie down beside me and stare at the ceiling with me. You’ll see.”

He reluctantly obliges, lying down beside you, his head just brushing against your shoulder. “What am I supposed to see? Other than the ceiling fan?”

“You don’t feel it?”

His hair tickles your naked flesh as he shakes his head. “Feel what, baby?”

A long, languid sigh pulls from somewhere deep in your chest. “The walls closing in. The life force slowly draining from your body.”

“Okay, that’s it.” He pulls in a fast, deep breath and sits bolt upright, shoving his right arm beneath you in one swift and solid motion to easily toss you up over his shoulder. You let out a small _eep_ as he tugs you close and scoots backwards off the bed. “We’re going for a walk,” he says, twisting around and hauling you a bit higher up as he moves to the bureau and pulls open the top drawer.

You don’t bother fighting him. You only crane your head to watch as he digs through your underwear, his fingers lingering perhaps a bit too long amid the lace and silk pieces before clasping around a pair of cotton panties and folding them into his palm. “What…”

“Now,” he goes on, interrupting you and heading across the room towards the overstuffed chair in the corner. He drops you unceremoniously into the seat with a thick grunt, grabbing the pair of jeans you had draped over the back and tossing them – along with the pair of underwear – into your lap. “You have exactly two minutes to get dressed or I’m taking you out to the track like this.”

You scowl at him, then down at the clothes in your lap. “No shirt?” you snipe brazenly.

He shrugs – “Guess that’s your call.” – and glances over at the clock on the bedside table. “One minute, forty-five seconds.”

“But I don’t want to,” you whine, drawing each word out pathetically.

He raises a brow at you – at your childish antics – and juts his chin toward your clothes by way of command. A giant, petulant pout rolls across your face as you lean over and pull on the panties, tugging them up awkwardly as you scoot down the cushion of the chair instead of rising. He watches like a distrustful prison guard, his face flat and serious. But there’s a mirthful twinkle in his deep blue eyes, a highly amused, almost gleeful glint that grows wider as you clumsily struggle into your pants in much the same way.

“I’m not wearing a bra,” you state firmly as you – _finally_ – stand. “Quarantine and confinement expressly dictate no bra needed. And I’m not breaking that rule.”

“Fine,” he says with a shrug, gaze bouncing around the room before landing on the hoodie he shed earlier in the day, laying splayed on the corner of the bed. He snatches it up and tosses it to you, small smirk morphing into a wide, crooked smile when he turns back to find the towel shed and you looming half naked before him. “I prefer you without one anyway.”

You roll your eyes and try to somehow hold back the coy blush you feel bloom along your neck and cheeks. Then you tug on the oversized sweatshirt, sputtering and shaking your head to loose the now staticky hair clinging to your face. You try to blow it away, catching a glimpse Bucky’s still-grinning face as you do so. The hoodie comes nearly down to your knees, positively drowning you in it’s warmth and nearly overwhelming you with the smell of him. But that brilliant comfort does nothing to keep you from giving him an annoyed look as you attempt to push the too damn long sleeves up your forearms with a disgruntled groan. “This does it for you?” you ask when you see his eyes slowly, yearningly trace up and down your body.

He takes the two short steps needed to close the distance between you, drops his hands to your hips – or where he assumes they are, buried in the billowing sweatshirt – and nods. “Yeah, it does.”

You can’t hold back the sweet, charmed laugh that bubbles up from your chest as you watch him actually lick his lips in front of you, smacking them loudly as his eyes remain glued to your body. “Stop it,” you breathe out amid another chortle as you teasingly slap at his shoulder.

He wraps his arms around you, pulling you into his chest for a lingering, blissful moment, his breath softly blowing back your hair as he utters simply, “There’s my girl.”

You feel your own hands creep around him, folding over his low back. And you mumble into him, “Here I am. Dressed. Standing upright.”

He chuckles lightly, the slight quivering of his chest pulsating into you as the sound spills into your hair, and he delicately presses a kiss to your temple before pulling away, just a bit, just enough to be able to look down at you. “Almost forgot what you looked like dressed and standing.”

“Mm-hmm,” you hum blithely, locking onto his gaze as – ever so slowly and stealthily – your hands release their hold on him and move up to tug the hood of the shirt up over your head. Your fingers wind themselves around the strings and steadily tug down until the thick, black hood conceals nearly your entire face, nothing more than your nose and top lip peeking through the opening. Your eyes are covered, so you can’t see the fond and utterly amused smile that rolls over Bucky’s face, but you sense it none the less, somehow feeling the warmth of it just inches away. You force yourself to bite back a grin of your own, firmly shoving down the bit of lightness creeping into your core, and you mumble through the sweatshirt, “Okay, I’m ready.”

“Really?” he asks, tone mocking. And you can almost hear him shaking his head chidingly.

“Too dangerous,” you mutter, shifting your chin up to allow the words to spill out of the tiny hood hole. “I don't have a mask.”

He laughs, a quick, thick sputter that makes the corners of your well-hidden lips curl up despite yourself. “Baby,” he starts, hands falling to your hips and pinching down before giving a quick jostle. “The entire compound is on lockdown. All non-essential personnel were sent home a week ago. It’s just the team, and none of us have been off the premises.”

“That you know of,” you drawl out suspiciously. “Name one member of the team that you actually _really_ , _truly_ trust.”

Another gruff chortle, a bit indistinct through the stifled haze of the tight, dark hood. “I trust them all. And that’s saying something coming from me.”

You let out a long, pathetic groan, head dropping back dramatically so that your chin rolls into position in the hood hole, words muffled by the confining fabric when you grumble out, “Don’t wanna…”

“Just give me an hour,” he says, voice soft and entreating. “For the next hour, I don’t want you thinking about anything but me and you and…” He reaches out to work his fingers beneath the taut hood, frowning when you pull the drawstring tighter to stifle his progress. A small, irritated huff blows out of him as he pries the strings from your hands, your impudent pout and short grunt bringing an amused beam to his face despite his annoyance. He tugs the hood away from your face and off your head, running his right hand through your hair to smooth down – as best he can without some kind of blowtorch – the staticky mess of tangles you just created. “The feel of the sun on your face,” he finally finishes his thought, giving a sweet, sincere smile as you look up at him with still-glum eyes.

The put-on pout vanishes from your face, all too swiftly being replaced by a stern and anxious scowl. “People are dying,” you argue weakly.

He continues to hold your gaze, those bright blue eyes burrowing all the way down to your soul. “People die everyday, sweetheart.”

You shake your head adamantly. “People are sick. And they’re losing their jobs. They can’t work, can’t pay their rent. Kids can’t go to school… and you know how many kids rely on school for meals? And their education?” Your eyes widen, posture stiffens as your voice takes on a nervous edge and the words tumble at an even faster pace from your slightly trembling lips. “Homeschool? James, people are having to homeschool their kids… I would lose my freaking mind if I had to do that! There aren’t enough hospital beds, enough ventilators… Out-of-touch celebrities are singing _Imagine_ for God only knows what reason! And there is _no_ _toilet paper_!”

He takes ahold of your shoulders, fingers pressing down firmly to help ground you. “Just me and you, baby,” he reminds you gently. “We’re not dying. We’re not sick. We’ve got our jobs, even if we can’t really _do_ them right now. We don’t have any kids to homeschool. And we have plenty of TP. And I promise, I’m not going to make you sing anything. Believe me, that would be more torture for me than anything.”

“You’re not funny.”

He chuckles lightly, fingers releasing and beginning a soft, sweeping motion along your upper arms. “One hour, doll. Just you and me. And some fresh air. Can you do that for me?”

You duck your head reticently, fully aware that you’re about to cave. “Then you’ll let me return to my cocoon?”

He cocks a wickedly enticing eyebrow at you and declares, “Then we can grab some food and curl up in bed together and watch Netflix.”

You look up through thick lashes, slight sulk still punctuating your face despite the rising tilt at one corner of your lips. “Watch _Pandemic_?”

A loud, frustrated groan pulls from his chest, another eye roll nearly spraining each and every ocular muscle. “Get your shoes and get your ass out the door,” he says, pulling away and giving your behind a swift thwack as he spins on a heel and heads for the hall.

You shove the thick sweatshirt sleeves back up your forearms and bend over to collect the shoes you haven’t bothered to wear in _days_ , calling out to him as you race after, “I’m still not gonna let you kiss me unless you gargle with bleach water!” Knowing full well that’s the emptiest threat you’ve _ever_ made.

**Author's Note:**

> I have no Bucky to lift me from my stupor... perhaps some comments from you would do the trick? 😉


End file.
